


Hopes Adrift

by alba17



Series: Hopes Profound [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to Hopes Profound. Arthur and Merlin meet again after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hopes Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued. Sorry about that, I just felt like I needed to post this part to get impetus to continue. I've started the next part. Written for bookworm89's prompt, "Remembrance Day." Originally I envisioned this story in three parts, one before the war, one during, one after, so that prompt fit right in with the after-the-war part. I'd like to eventually fill in the war part.

Merlin placed a red poppy wreath on Will’s grave, just as he had the year before. In tense, bereaved silence, he listened to the anthems and poetry, with their evocations of heroic deeds and brave sacrifice. Merlin preferred to remember Will as his boisterous best friend, quick with a smile, rather than the pale, drawn young man in a khaki uniform who went off to die in a war he didn’t believe in.

After the service, the crowded dispersed and the cemetery grew quiet save for dry autumn leaves crinkling in the November wind. Merlin valued these moments alone when he could sort through his memories of Will, clippings in a scrapbook of their friendship. A group of mourners was taking their time leaving, a man’s arm around a woman’s shoulders, an older woman with a handkerchief to her face. Merlin sighed, the colourless day dragging him down along with the sight of the endless rows of gravestones. What he needed was a pub, somewhere warm to sit and drink until the pain lost its edge, where he could vanish into his thoughts while still keeping a toe in the world of the living.

He noticed a young man standing a short distance away in front of another grave. His shoulders had a stiff military set and he held his hat in his hands, head bowed in thought. The red poppy in his lapel was the only note of colour in his ensemble other than the glint of thin winter sun on his blond hair.

When the man lifted his head, Merlin was shocked to find that he knew him. It was Arthur Pendragon, someone Merlin never expected to see again. His heart pounded a tattoo of alarm. He looked tired, shadows pulling at his eyes. But then, everyone looked that way the last few years. It was unmistakably the charismatic young man who’d come to Merlin’s rescue that day, years ago now, the day of the Trafalgar Square demonstration, the very day that Britain declared war on Germany; the day it all began. In the short time they’d spent together, Merlin had felt a strange sort of bond with the aristocratic Pendragon, who was already slotted into an army command, while Merlin had opposed the war with a fierce ardor.

Everyone thought it would be over in months, not years. No one imagined that the war would decimate an entire generation of young men, leaving women without husbands, girls without sweethearts, universities without students and factories without workers. And yet somehow they’d both made it through the slaughter to end up here, in this cemetery on Remembrance Day, on a cold, dank November day. It was nothing short of amazing.

Merlin had waited for Arthur in the Charing Cross pub in August, 1915, the date they’d somewhat optimistically arranged to meet a year later. He knew it was a fool’s errand, that Arthur wouldn’t be there. But he’d thought so often of Pendragon in the intervening year that he couldn’t resist making an appearance, just in case. They’d met under such strange circumstances on a day when everything seemed on the verge of happening, the future terrifying yet exciting at the same time. Arthur held a special place in his heart and he’d often wondered how he’d fared in the dreadful apocalypse that followed. Something about the man inspired hope, that the slaughter wasn’t for naught, that something good could come from this senseless, insane war.

Finally, Merlin gathered his courage. “It’s Arthur Pendragon, isn’t it?”

Arthur looked up at Merlin. He didn’t recognise him immediately, but after a moment, his face lit up. “Merlin Emrys! My god.” He clapped Merlin on the arm and held out a hand. It was warm and solid in Merlin’s grasp.

It was so good to see him. Merlin’s chest filled with warmth at the sight of his bright smile.

“You remember me,” Merlin said, delighted.

Arthur grinned. “Yes. Yes, I do, of course I do. That crazy escape on the tram. How could I forget?”

“Well, alot has happened.” Understatement of the year.

Arthur’s eyes darted to the gravestone. “Yes, it has.”

“Let’s go for a pint,” Merlin said, daringly, suddenly feeling like he couldn’t let the moment pass.

“I’d like that,” Arthur said. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it back to Charing Cross in ‘15. Were you there?”

Merlin felt his cheeks heat. 

“You were, weren’t you?” Arthur chuckled. “Well, I was covered in mud in northern France, so little chance of making it. Anyway, come on, let’s catch up.”

They started down the path towards the street, darting little glances at each other. Merlin wondered what exactly he was doing, but he knew he had little choice.


End file.
